


Disassemble

by monimala



Category: The Avengers (2012), The Original Sinners - Tiffany Reisz
Genre: F/M, Femdom, Light BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 09:50:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/885843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monimala/pseuds/monimala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crossover vignette featuring Tony Stark, from the Marvel movieverse, and the world of Tiffany Reisz's Original Sinners BDSM series. More vignettes, with other denizens, may follow and will be uploaded as chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Disassemble

The tip of her boot sits just below the Arc reactor, her narrow foot a sleek leather line down his rib cage and the stacked heel digging into his navel. He’d be worried, except he paid her to put it there. He paid her _a lot of money_ to put it there.

“Stop thinking, Tony.” It’s an order. He doesn’t do well with orders. Even when accompanied by the flick of a whip against his cheek. Besides, she doesn’t cut the skin — she knows  Pepper won’t buy that he nicked himself shaving — and the order comes from lips twisted too sardonically to really be mean.

“I can’t stop thinking,” he tells her. “People count on me to do a lot of thinking.” He looks to the left as comfortably as the restraints will allow, making sure the comm is still on the bedside table. JARVIS isn’t rude enough to listen in — he wouldn’t _want_ to listen in — but just the suggestion of the AI’s presence is enough. “People _die_ when I don’t do it enough. People _have_ died.”

“Then stop beating yourself up.” She drags the tip of the whip down, and he arches up just enough so that she can wind around his throat. Tighten. Pull. “Because that’s _my_ job.”

 And, damn, she’s good at it.

 It’s a different kind of pain than broken fingers, than the rawness at the back of his throat from throwing up top shelf booze or the thumping he gets every time the suit flies into a wall. It’s…sweet. Sweet, mindless punishment. Self-flagellation except without the “self.” Without him. All he has to do is lie back and take it.

 “Good boy,” she whispers when he closes his eyes. And only Nora Sutherlin would _ever_ call him such a thing. As far as the world is concerned, he’s a very, very bad boy. An overgrown man-child who hides behind unbeatable armor and an even more unbeatable bank account. Or maybe that’s just Pepper, who keeps expecting him to be better and keeps being disappointed.

“How _is_ Pepper?” Nora asked him when he came in for his session, trading pleasantries like she’s his therapist and his dinner date at once.

“Brilliant,” he’d said, truthfully. “Perfect. Saintly. Too saintly for the likes of me.”

That is one problem that Nora doesn’t have. One problem they don’t have together. They’re sinners in the 8th Circle of Hell. He’s tied to the rock in Tartarus, experiencing exquisite torment as she switches out her whip for a cane and strikes out at angles across his legs, his thighs, his abdomen. Pinpoints of pain flush under his skin, spark behind his eyes. And it’s like freefall as diagnostics flash across the inside of his helmet. He’s never so hard as that split-second before his thrusters kick in and JARVIS comes back online, that tiny moment where he might actually die and stay dead. But this is close. She brings him close.

“Am I red yet?” he asks, because he can’t see all the way down. Because it hurts, and it should.

“Yes, you’re red. Red and gold.” Her palm is cool against his burning hot skin. “Iron Man…you like it when I test your mettle, don’t you?”

She’s made that joke before, and she sounds so pleased by the wordplay every time. More pleased by verbal gymnastics than by hurting him…but he doesn’t want to examine that too deeply. Because then he has to wonder if there’s one more person he’s failing. One more thing he hasn’t thought through to the right conclusion.

Her black cat suit is skin-tight, the matching flight jacket perfectly fitted. Everything is authentic up to the insignia under the lapel. It says “K.I.N.K.” instead. Kingsley Edge’s private tailor found that particularly amusing. Chalk it on to the long list of things he’s never going to tell Natasha Romanoff. Not that Nora is in any way reminiscent of the Widow. She’s…affectionate. Funny. Recreational. If Natasha ever kicked his ass, neither of one of them would enjoy it.  

Nora canes the ass in question. Hard. The blow comes from beneath, the small gap between him and the mattress, and he actually makes an unmanly noise of distress. A yelp. “That’s better,” she laughs. “If you won’t take yourself some place fun, the least you can do is stay right here.”

So, he does. For the next half hour, he stays in a safe place of pain that only occasionally borders on pleasure. It’s one he knows he will be rescued from. He knows that she will stop.  And they both know that he’s free to be a coward with no one to watch him, no one to judge him, but his own conscience.

He doesn’t beg. He never begs. He just comes. Because his mettle is rusted, and so is his soul.

 


End file.
